Boots

I've been "transplanted" to the North now for almost five years.  All those cliches about time flying are true.  It seems like just a couple of months ago DH and I had piled everything into our cars (and my father-in-law's trailer) and headed off on the grand adventure of medical school.  I was reminiscing this weekend about our first months here in the tundra and how living in the North has been rather an adjustment.

Fabulous shoes are a distinct weakness of mine, a harmless but expensive flaw that I share with many of the female population.  I can't say the entire female population because I have been treated to viewings of truly terrible shoes in my lifetime.  Usually at Wal-Mart after 10 p.m.  What is it about Wal-Mart and nighttime that brings out the fashion victim in so many people?

I had oodles of beautiful shoes when I moved North. Stilettos, sandals, espadrilles, cowboy boots, biker boots, flip flops.  I did not have winter boots.  These are winter boots:

Ugly, aren't they?  They are Sorel boots, tested to -40 F.  I didn't know those kind of temperatures existed in the populated world.    I also didn't know these boots (or anything like them) existed. So when my Northern-born-and-bred friends told me to get boots after I slipped and fell (multiple) times in my first Northern snowstorm, I took their advice.

I bought beautiful boots.  Buttery chocolate colored suede boots.  Four inch heel boots.  Fabulous boots.  They looked a little more like this: 

They are NOT winter boots.  This explains why I fell twice more on my way to class the next day while proudly wearing my new purchase.  I skinned my elbow,  I bruised my bum, but they were fabulous.  My friends assured me of this after they recovered from their giggling fit.  I protested heartily that I had taken their advice.  I bought boots!  Why was I still falling?  They then each grabbed an arm, man-handled me back to my Jeep, and took me shopping to learn what Northern winter boots were.  

I now am the not-so-proud owner of a fully insulated, very warm, waterproof, disgustingly practical pair of winter boots.  (And I kept the beautiful ones.  I accept my weakness.)

*Boots are Sorel and Louboutin, respectively.  Images are from brands' respective websites.

New Year's Freeze

New Year's Eve is probably the most over-hyped holiday we celebrate. Rushing from one party to the next, drinking bad sparkling wine while avoiding sloshing glasses threatening your outfit, crushing rooms full of sweaty strangers shouting resolutions for the next year which they will promptly break the next day. It's an exhausting night that usually has only a thin veneer of glamour left after the clock strikes twelve.

However, we are developing a new New Year's tradition. A dear friend of mine currently living in the Northwest has a darling island cabin in a lake near Canada. It is remote, secluded, and incredibly peaceful. It is also a two mile kayak or ski to get there from shore, depending on the season. In the summer, it's a delightful trip across cool glassy waters. In the winter, it can be a peaceful ski across expanses of white ice and snow. It can also be a bitter ski with howling winds, cracking ice, and dangerous conditions. My favorite New Year's was spent skiing across the lake, building a roaring fire in the cabin, making and eating a delicious meal, taking a sauna, and drinking champagne.

So when C. called and said, "Hey, I think I can fly in for three days. Do you want to do New Year's at the cabin?" it was the easiest yes I have said in awhile. Bear in mind that the weather forecast for the weekend was a balmy -17 F.

Groceries were bought, skis were borrowed, and we were set. I picked up C. from the airport and DH from his work. We got a slightly later start to the day than planned, so it was decidedly dark by the time we got to the lake. Not a problem. I've skied across this lake in the dark before. It was also -27 F without windchill. Slightly more of a problem seeing how I am a total wimp when it comes to the cold.

Three pairs of pants. Four shirts. Two pairs of gloves and a pair of mittens. Long underwear. Two hats. One scarf. Three pairs of socks. I was ready.

Fifteen minutes and about 1/2 of mile later, I was so not ready. Did I mention that it was FREEZING? Or that there was no wind block since we were skiing across a lake? Or that we had brilliantly decided to bring the dog with us, but the boots we picked up at Cabelas for her were too large, fell off, and filled with snow? Or that she was now refusing to walk because her paws were freezing and she was shaking? Or that we had to pull a sled across the lake with all of our supplies on it? Or that the lake was apparently only partially frozen so that every few steps you broke through the top layer of ice to water underneath which promptly froze when you pulled your ski out of the water? Or that this quickly built up to two inches of ice on the bottom of your skis? Or that it is difficult to ski with two inches of ice on the bottom of your skis?

I was pretty sure I was going to die.

However, I was not going to let anyone else know this. I refused to be the weeny who quit halfway across the lake. When my friend turned and asked if I was okay, I said, "Sure, keep going." At this point DH and I were taking turns carrying the dog inside our coats to help keep her warm. Thank goodness she's small for her breed.

We had made it about a mile and a half across when my fingers and toes stopped hurting. This was a big problem. For all you Southerners, pain is a good thing when you are cold. When the pain goes away, you have to start worrying more about frostbite. It's significantly harder to be a surgeon when you have no finger tips. I stopped to put in another set of hand warmers and check the color of my fingers. Still red, not black.

C. turned and started yelling at me. "We cannot stop again. You will die. Do you understand me? People die when it is this cold. YOU WILL DIE."

It is not good when someone else tells you what you have secretly been thinking for the past mile, particularly when it concerns your imminent demise. We pushed on. In my mind, I cursed her father for picking the island that was farthest away from shore. Remote is fine and dandy in the summer, but in the winter is a whole different story. We finally made it to the cabin, almost 2 hours after we started. Fire was built, cocoa was drunk, and heaters were lit. We found out the next day that the temperature got down to -40 F that night.

It was a heck of a start to the weekend.

One of those days.

I would have been very happy staying in bed this morning.

It was cold outside. It was raining. And it was very grey. I pulled myself out from under the pierzyna and padded down the hall. 54 degrees. Still no heat.

Hot shower, hot breakfast, hugged my puppy, headed to class.

Fell down the stairs. Moccasins and wet wood reduced the coefficient of friction to something close to zero. Skinned knees and grass stained tush are not a novel occurrence in my life, so I picked myself up and headed to the Jeep.

The Jeep had low air in its tires. The car was undriveable secondary to its run-in with the tree and subsequent hot-dog bun appearance. DH took the only umbrella because he secretly thinks it's funny when my hair gets really fuzzy in the rain. Plus blue is his favorite color, so he likes it when my fingers lose all circulation from the cold.

I walked in the rain.

There was a crazy woman walking on the sidewalk in front of me. I probably shouldn't call her crazy. She was wearing a walking boot, a purple trash bag wrapped around her waist, and a red nylon bag over her head. She was pushing an empty stroller. So instead of crazy we'll go with Susan. DH said she was probably homeless. I don't think she was homeless. It was a really nice trash bag.

I didn't want to pass her in case she got ideas about running me down with the stroller, so I trailed behind. It was a poor decision on my part.

You see, Mr. Bus Driver had the same idea I did. He was trailing behind Susan for about three blocks ~ just enough time for the rain to soak through my shoes and give my hair a nice halo effect. Then Mr. Bus Driver decided to blow past Susan and I on his merry way to the bus stop a block ahead of us.

There was a large muddy puddle along that route.

Susan laughed so hard at drenched, muddy, shivering me that she had to sit down in her stroller.

I laughed too. All I could think was "if only I had wrapped up in a trash bag."